


(Un)Successful Cohabitation

by xx_bittersweet_merlin



Series: founders era [6]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Hashirama's horrible alien cooking, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Sibling Rivalry, Tobirama being a little shit, Uchiha Izuna Lives, these two deserve the dumb childish arguments you know all siblings have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-16 04:53:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xx_bittersweet_merlin/pseuds/xx_bittersweet_merlin
Summary: "It's just a drawing, Tobirama.""Of Madara," he noted, feeling a little ornery. "In a heart.""It's nothing! It's no big deal.""Mhm-hmm. Maybe,” he began, holding it up in the light, “if it’s no big deal, I should show it to him.”Hashirama froze. His eyes went wide as he stared at him, bleak with a growing amount of terror. “Tobirama, don’t you dare.”(for a "hashi and tobs acting their age" request, or, Hashirama and Tobirama's sibling rivalry gets Hashirama a husband)





	1. (un)successful fight resolutions

It wasn’t often that Tobirama and his brother fought. Certainly, they disagreed over some matters, and it occasionally resulted in unhappy sighs or a bit of sulking, but it had been a long time since they had a serious argument.

The fight they’d had that morning, however, had been bad enough that Toka had paused before entering the room, grimaced, and decided to come back later. They’d been arguing over who to place on the advisory council, a necessary installment so the Hokage’s position wouldn’t look like only one man’s word was law, and Tobirama knew very well just who Hashirama had in mind.

They’d already agreed that a Nara would be a good choice. They were notoriously neutral and levelheaded, and almost anyone from their clan was bound to have an above-average intellect for such things as strategy and rationality; even the other clans gathered in Konoha had to admit it was a choice made of practicality rather than favoritism. The second was to be a shinobi from no clan, to avoid said illusion of favoritism.

The problem came with the third choice. Hashirama was insisting that an Uchiha needed to be on it, since they were the other founding clan of the village, but Tobirama was convinced it wouldn’t end well. Choosing an Uchiha would defeat the entire point of trying not to look like they were playing favorites, and even with the issues between the Senju and Uchiha, there was still a divide between them as the founding clans and the rest of the clans who’d migrated later. It would look too exclusionary.

The candidates he put forth were a Hyuuga and a Shimura, both highly respected within the other clans and run by clan leaders who would be highly offended if it appeared as though they’d been snuffed. Their banter on the matter had gradually devolved and become more heated until both of them were agitated and had to take a break to cool off.

Tobirama grimaced a little as he thought back on the argument. He supposed it had been slightly less due to the actual topic at hand and more due to the stress of the last few months, especially regarding the Uchiha. Hashirama had wanted to trust them instantly, but Tobirama had been more cautious. He still maintained that Hashirama should have done the same, or at least tried to see his point; they had been at war for years.

However, he supposed he could have tried to be more lenient in this specific instance. He supposed that Hashirama’s point wasn’t worthy of being thrown out without thought; the Uchiha _were_ half of Konoha’s founding force and it would look respectful to at least offer a position to one of their members.

But his choices were just as worthy of deliberation, and it wasn’t his fault if his brother had been bullheaded.

He scowled as he leaned back against his desk and glowered at the baseboard across from him.

He was not sulking. He was considering how he could have handled the situation more rationally.

He was _not_ pouting.

He pushed off his desk and walked out into the hall towards the Hokage’s office. Hashirama was probably done sulking by now, it had been hours, and his moods never lasted more; the initial anger had to have melted off, not that Tobirama would know. He _was not_ pouting.

Tobirama could hear the scratching noise of his brother’s quill on parchment. It was different from how writing sounded- longer strokes, more pressure applied; Tobirama had seen doodles on Hashirama’s paperwork occasionally, even if he was no artist. He glanced through the doorway of the office and spotted him slumped over at his desk, chin resting on one folded arm, eyes on his paper as he drew something.

He was fairly focused, because he didn’t react at all as Tobirama came up to the side of his desk, cautiously, as if approaching a dog in the woods digging away at something unknown. He raised an eyebrow when he saw what his brother was sketching: a small doodle of one Uchiha Madara, from the shoulders up, no doubt because Hashirama was thinking of his smile. The elder Senju himself hadn’t even seemed to notice the heart he’d doodled around Madara’s form.

“What are you drawing, anija?” he asked, projecting an air of guilelessness, inwardly smirking when Hashirama jumped. His brother saw fit to chastise him all the time but it was rarer to catch him in the act of something Tobirama could truly make fun of.

A blush heated the Hokage’s cheekbones as he quickly flipped the paper over. “It’s nothing, Tobirama.” He diverted his eyes away, probably remembering their spat, and though the air was still a bit awkward Tobirama had found a target that would undoubtedly prove to rankle under his brother’s skin.

“Oh?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, tilting his head, and he noted how Hashirama grimaced. He hated Tobirama’s quizzical looks. Tobirama knew he thought that they cut straight through to the bone, in a chilling sort of way. “Nothing distracting you from your paperwork?”

Hashirama’s grimace deepened. Tobirama reached out with the hand he’d placed on the table and flipped the paper over, letting out a judgmental hum that made Hashirama fold his arms and look away. He was still pouting from earlier. “It’s just a drawing, Tobirama.”

“Of Madara,” he noted, feeling a little ornery. It was actually quite good, too, but he had to wonder if that was due to any actual true drawing skill or the amount of times Hashirama had fantasized about the man’s face that lent themselves to being able to recall it so easily. “In a heart.”

“It’s nothing! It’s no big deal.”

“Mhm-hmm.” Hashirama sat there sulking as he held the drawing, taking a few meandering steps away, and Tobirama found himself presented with two options; forget about it because it wasn’t worth the trouble- the more logical option- or be a little shit. It had been a while since he’d seen his brother hassled. Maybe it would make him listen better.

“Maybe,” he began, holding it up in the light of the window with a pensive expression that made Hashirama frown at him, “if it’s no big deal, I should show it to him.”

Hashirama froze. His eyes went wide as he stared at him, bleak with a growing amount of terror, and his mouth opened a few times before he managed to say anything. Tobirama tried to imagine the expression on Madara’s face were he to show the paper to him. He didn’t know the Uchiha well, but he knew he got flustered easily, at least when it came to Hashirama. “Tobirama, don’t you dare.”

Tobirama looked away from the paper, looked his brother in the eye, and smirked. His brother blanched.

“Tobirama,” he said again, standing from his desk and making his chair whine against the floor, “don’t-” But Tobirama had already fled the room, disappearing in a flash, and the rest of his sentence came out as a yell as he lunged after him. “ _Don’t you dare!”_

* * *

 

“Tobirama, get back here!”

It was almost funny- no, it was definitely funny- how high Hashirama’s voice had gotten as he chased him across the village, sending both civilians and other shinobi scattering out of their way in the streets and over rooftops as they gave them confused glances. Tobirama hadn’t heard his voice get that panicked since they were around ten and he’d told him he was going to tell Toka that he’d said her soup tasted like yucky dead eels.

He flashed to another of his Hiraishin marks a greater distance away, knowing Hashirama could catch him in a flat-out race if he was frantic enough, or when Madara was involved. The Uchiha compound’s fence came into view ahead of him, six-foot black rods lining either side of the open gate.

He vaulted over the fence onto one of the houses. Below, Uchiha glanced up and gave him confused stares, though none of them seemed anything more than mildly wary. It was strange to see him there, after all, but it had been several months since the village’s creation, and things had finally started to ease between the clans that had gathered as they worked out their social routine.

He headed for the center, mindful of Hashirama’s chakra closing in on him, and landed on the roof of the clan head’s home. It was a large traditional dwelling, with two stories around two separate inner gardens, and he could feel Madara’s chakra moving around within one of them, though he couldn’t see the man due to a large tree growing in the garden directly under his side of the roof.

“Tobirama!”

Hashirama landed behind him, voice lowered to a hushed shout, obviously trying to keep a low profile. “Give that back!” he insisted, eyes darting around as if Madara would appear at any moment. Given the Uchiha was a sensor himself, it was entirely possible.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow and lifted the piece of paper he’d folded in half. “Oh, you want this?” he asked nonchalantly, as if it was just something he’d picked up in the street.

Hashirama’s eyebrow twitched. He extended his hand and took a step closer, looking as though he was starting to get truly annoyed. “Yes! Please hand it back to me.”

Tobirama let a smirk slither onto his lips again. “Come and get it, then, anija,” he said, wiping his face clean of any emotion as he held the paper out. Hashirama eyed it and then him, wary, then took a few hesitant steps towards him, trying to be quiet on the roof tiles.

Tobirama retracted his arm, just a little bit, making him step closer before he could take it. Of all things, he wasn’t expecting Tobirama to latch onto his wrist with both hands and vault him off the roof at breakneck speed.

He let out a panicked shriek as he went crashing down into the inner garden, through a variety of tree branches, creating a startling boom as he slammed into the dirt and knocked something over that sounded like metal.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Tobirama wondered if he’d thrown him too hard. He veered a few steps to the side, where he could see better, and spotted Hashirama through the tree branches.

“Hashirama!” Madara’s voice howled from below, like an angry cat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He was looming over Hashirama, who’d landed on his backside, with, for some reason, a towel in one hand, dressed in a plain yukata.

“Madara!” his brother’s frantic voice yelped, vibrating with nervousness. “I’m so sorry-!”

“Were you raised in a barn? What the hell is wrong with you!”

“I’m sorry! Ah, Madara, no-!”

Tobirama grinned to himself, satisfied with his work, and sat back on his haunches. He listened as Madara continued to chew the Hokage out below, letting loose a torrent of scathing insults that would have cowed even the most valiant-hearted. With every word his brother seemed to shrink farther towards the ground as he squeaked in terror.

The cold steel of a blade pressed against his throat. Tobirama paused, momentarily ignoring the instinct to knock it away, because he knew Izuna- and it was definitely Izuna, if he’d managed to sneak up on him- wasn’t going to actually cut his throat.

“Nice day, isn’t it, Senju?” the man asked him, voice full of cheer.

“There a reason you’re holding a sword to my throat?” Tobirama asked, voice casual. It would be easy to teleport to one of his marks, but he was a little curious.

“It’s my brotherly duty,” Izuna told him, still as cheery. “After all, you are putting off quite the bad image, right now, trying to peep on my brother while he’s bathing.”

Tobirama froze. He glanced at the scene below again, watching Madara slap his brother upside the head with the towel. Repeatedly.

Unbidden, a laugh that was more evil-hearted than amused bubbled out of him, and he clamped down on it until it was only a chuckle rumbling from his chest. Madara had been bathing? No wonder he’d been so offended at Hashirama’s extravagant entrance. That was even better than Tobirama had expected.

“Why are you so happy?” Izuna asked, raising an eyebrow at his grin as he sheathed his blade. He folded his arms and stood there to wait with his feet on two differently-leveled tiles, appearing unbothered by the odd footing. “Has Hell frozen over? Are there mutant pigs loose in the village I haven’t seen yet?”

“My brother,” Tobirama began, unsure of why he was even talking to Uchiha Izuna, who he’d barely said two words to since the man had blatantly copied his kage bunshin jutsu on the battlefield a few years back, “is an idiot.”

Izuna raised an eyebrow at him. His _that’s obvious_ rang loud and clear without needing to be said aloud. Tobirama might have felt offended if the man hadn’t just gone crashing disastrously into Uchiha Madara’s private bathing session.

Something changed in Izuna’s eyes as he stared at him, like a weirdly gleeful light being turned on. He glanced at the two forms below through the trees, growing a smile that looked more like a devil’s, and turned back to Tobirama with a cheerful grin. “Oh, I see what you’re doing, Senju.”

Tobirama arched one silver eyebrow. He had to doubt that, but the utter surety with which the Uchiha said it was mildly convincing. And a little concerning.

“And I have to say, I respect how far you’re willing to go for it. I’m always up for tormenting unsuspecting idiots,” Izuna continued cheerily, making his eyebrow raise farther. Maybe he _did_ know what Tobirama was doing. “And it sounds fun. I, Uchiha Izuna, will _graciously_ assist in this endeavor.”

Tobirama squinted at him. He honestly did not know much about Madara’s younger brother, other than the fact he was highly annoying on the battlefield and had once spoken exclusively in haiku for three months just to make Tobirama bust a vein in his forehead, but he could only guess that he, too, became annoyed with his own elder brother at times and wanted to terrorize him.

“Honestly, you should have asked me from the beginning,” Izuna was still going on, tossing his hair over his shoulder like it was a practiced motion. “In fact, I already have an idea! You know that farmer’s festival tomorrow morning? I have a job for you!”

Tobirama had been just staring at him up until that point but took a moment to narrow his eyes. “What might that be?” he asked, mildly wary. Izuna looked like the type of person to manipulate everyone involved and smile the entire time.

Indeed, the cheerful smile still hadn’t wavered. “You have some skill, I guess,” he said as he examined his nails, making Tobirama twitch. He knew the Uchiha knew damn well how skilled he was, considering they’d clashed on the battlefield. “So it won’t be too hard for a shinobi like you to make your brother spill something on mine.”

Tobirama’s eyebrows shot up.

“Something _very_ messy,” Izuna told him gleefully, and the Senju reconsidered his thoughts. Maybe Izuna knew _exactly_ what they were doing.

He imagined the horrified shriek his brother would make upon realizing he’d spilled something all over the object of his- ugh, _affections_ \- and the offended glare he would give in Tobirama’s direction. There was a _reason_ Tobirama had dragged Madara into their tussle. He was practically the only thing that could make Hashirama panic so much.

And it was very, _very_ amusing when it happened.

He would never be expecting it. He would probably come back to the office later, sulking up a storm, grumpily ask him if he was satisfied or whine at him about Madara giving him a lump on his head from slapping him with the towel so much, and mumble out an apology about their fight that morning even though most of the tension was dissolved already and expect the next morning to be completely normal. He would be _completely_ vulnerable to an attack.

And he definitely deserved it. He’d put a bowl of _steaming neon green mushrooms_ in front of Tobirama three nights ago when he’d cooked for them. Bastard.

“All right,” he said, unable to keep himself from smirking a bit. “Messy.”

Izuna beamed. “Happy partnering in crime, Senju!” he chirped, then disappeared in a burst of cherry blossoms, of all things, shunshining to some unknown place while his laughter echoed in the air in his wake.

Tobirama glanced at the garden, which had gone quiet, and could no longer see his brother or Madara through the tree. He decided to teleport back to the office and work out his plan of attack, including, but not limited to, just what he could do to lull Hashirama into a false sense of security before the next day.


	2. (un)successful composure

“Izuna,” he’d said that morning, staring at his egg over rice with smoked ham on the side in something like a confused daze, “I want Hashirama.”

Izuna had hummed, continuing to dust the end table by the entryway to the kitchen and seemingly paying him little attention. Madara didn’t know why he insisted on cleaning whenever he came over- his house was fine.

“No,” he said, even though Izuna hadn’t said anything back, furrowing his brow as he leaned back from his meal and set his hands on the edge of the table. “I mean…I _want_ him.”

Izuna paused and turned around, feather duster in hand, and cocked an eyebrow at him. “About time you realized.”

He gave his brother a helpless look. “But I’m not sure how to… _you know_.” He turned a confused frown to the window, watching as Watatsumi preened in a tree branch outside, picking a few leaves out of her feathers. She’d probably gone dive-bombing a rat in the forest again and crashed through several trees or bushes to do it. She tended to take after him. “He won’t understand at all if I give him my collar.”

Izuna let out an amused noise. “You have no other ideas?”

Madara squinted at the tree outside. “What other way is there?”

Izuna snorted softly, sounding as if he was directing it more at himself than Madara, and set the feather duster down. “Don’t worry, aniki,” he said, smiling in that way he always did when he decided he needed to “amicably direct” something for Madara’s benefit. “I’ll help you. He won’t be able to resist your wily, seductive ways when I’m done.” Madara’s eyes narrowed further. He very much doubted that. “Go get ready for your bath. I’ll put away the dishes.”

And Madara had, thinking over why he hadn’t realized sooner, because Hashirama was his closest friend and the only one that could drag a smile out of him besides his brother and Madara always stared a bit when he took his shirt off for training in the heat.

What could he say? Hashirama was…an attractive specimen.

He was also, however, a fool, and came crashing into Madara’s garden right as he was untying the sash on his robe, taking out the table by the bathtub.

“Idiot,” he seethed, after three minutes of ranting while he berated the man with his bath towel. The brief flash of embarrassment he’d felt at almost being seen- it wasn’t as if he’d been around anyone in anything but a full-length mantle in several years- had faded, leaving only irritation in its wake. “What were you even doing?”

Hashirama, cringing, looked up with a hesitant smile and lowered his arms from where he’d been shielding himself. It hadn’t even hurt, honestly, he was just being overdramatic. “I, uh…I fell.”

Incredulous, Madara set his hands on his hips, hoping how unimpressed he felt was showing on his face. If the way Hashirama flinched was any indicator, he was succeeding. “You. Fell.”

“I, was, um, coming to visit this morning, and I, uh, landed on the roof and tripped.”

Hashirama smiled at him again, wheedling and pleading and a little pitiful, and Madara rolled his eyes. “Of course only you would do something as dumb as that.”

As predicted, the Senju slumped over in a sulk, face titled towards the ground.

Madara let a smirk crawl onto his lips. “However,” he said, “you can make it up to me.” Curious, Hashirama glanced up at him. “I know exactly what I’m going to do with you.”

Strangely enough, the other man’s eyes dimmed, going a bit out of focus as if Madara’s words reminded him of something or gave him some idea. Madara didn’t know what weird ideas he would be getting. “W- what are you going to do with me?” he asked, barely mumbling, and there was an odd amount of hopefulness, as if he knew whatever he had in mind wasn’t going to happen but wanted to hope for it anyway.

Madara raised an eyebrow. There were several things he could think of already he’d rather be having Hashirama doing. He made quite the picture, sitting there on the ground with his clothes askew, his landing having pulled his yukata loose enough it was just barely covering his pectorals. He resisted the urge to lick his lips as he stared and came up with another task instead.

Ten minutes later, Hashirama groaned as he finally dumped the last bucket of steaming hot water into the tub. Madara had demanded he get him new bathwater, as his had “gotten cold,” and he hadn’t let him use any jutsu to do it.

He retreated to the table Madara had made him repair and set the bucket down. Hearing the shifting of cloth behind him as Madara’s footsteps neared the bath, he turned, feeling completely frazzled as he took in the flash of collarbone Madara was showing off as he loosened his robe. “A-are you getting in?”

Madara tilted his head and cast him a lackadaisical-looking stare. “Turn around,” he ordered, tone just as lazy.

A bead of sweat slid down his face. Hashirama did as he was told and turned his back, gulping when he heard Madara place his robe on the bench beside the tub and place one foot into the water.

He could hear the Uchiha’s body slide into the water and it made him shiver a bit as he imagined how it must have looked. His friend was a beautiful man, a fact he’d thought over many times.

“You can turn around,” Madara said, tone uncaring, as he reached for the washcloth.

Hashirama turned and tried to focus on more than how much it felt like he was going to swallow his tongue at any given moment. There was a thin foam over the bath surface, shielding most of Madara’s body from view, though his shoulders and part of his chest were in full view as he washed his arms.

His hair was tied up tightly over his head and Hashirama had to break himself out of staring at the man’s neck. It was concealed, most of the time, so rarely seen, but it was as enticing as any other part of Madara’s body; lithe, just the right size for Hashirama to put his hand on-

“Hashirama,” Madara interrupted his thoughts, still sounding vaguely dismissive and amused as he leaned against the rim of the tub and closed his eyes. “Change the water. And fix my tree, while you’re at it, since you so rudely destroyed part of it.”

Hashirama swallowed. Thankfully, only saliva, and not his tongue, which felt thick and unresponsive. “Of course!” he laughed, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands as he scurried over to change the bucket of water beside the tub. Madara ordering him about- something he dreamed about often enough.

He imagined Madara telling- ordering- him over to the tub, eyes knowing and a little judgmental in the amused way, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes as he smiled and slowly lifted his feet up to hook over each edge of the tub, his tone a purr but no less of a demand as he spoke. _“Please me.”_

“Hashirama,” Madara called over to him, making him jump. “Water.”

“Coming!”

He quickly took a new bucket full of soap-filled water over to the bath, flushing at the smirk Madara gave him. He felt like he’d been caught doing something inappropriate. Then again, he supposed fantasizing about his best friend while the man bathed mere feet from him had to be inappropriate. Surely Madara wouldn’t appreciate it.

Madara watched him with a hawk-like gaze, aware of the glances his friend kept throwing his way- specifically, at his body. His eyes had drifted to the foam more than once, and he was acting oddly jittery, as if something was making him skittish.

He considered the possibility that nudity made Hashirama uncomfortable, but if that were the case, he thought the man would be doing his best to look away, not acting like a jumpy man who was having trouble looking away.

As a test, he raised one leg out of the water, setting it on the rim of the tub. Hashirama’s eyes followed it, lingering on his calf, as the man’s face flushed further.

Madara’s smirk widened. Perhaps, if he simply kept being blatant, Hashirama would realize just what his own body was signaling to him.

And if he was being honest, he really just liked to tease him and feel as though he were a cat playing with a pitiful little squeaking mouse.

He scooted forward and turned around, letting out a satisfied-sounding sigh, and stretched out towards the end of the tub he’d been leaning on, folding his arms over the edge and arching his back with a moan as pointed as he could muster. “Hashirama,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and letting his eyelids droop, “make yourself useful and wash my back for me.”

The man looked a little paler as he stood there blinking at him. “R…right,” he said, clearly thrown off balance, as he reached for the washcloth and approached him with a nervous look on his face.

Madara turned back around and settled his chin on his forearms. There was a pause before Hashirama lowered the cloth to his skin, riddled with his hesitation, and began to stroke his shoulder.

Madara let out a light sigh as a smile flitted across his lips. He could feel Hashirama’s palm pressing against his skin through the cloth, somehow perpetually warm; it felt better than he’d suspected it would and made his muscles relax as he leaned against the tub.

This was only cementing the realization he’d had that morning after waking up from a dream involving Hashirama, a bottle of oil, and a dimly-lit room as Hashirama’s hands massaged his thighs.

He very much preferred to have Hashirama’s hands on his body; and he would very, _very_ much prefer to explore all the other contexts in which it would be even more enjoyable.

He cracked one eye open and turned his head, taking a peek at the pensive expression on Hashirama’s face. He set the washcloth on the rim of the bucket when he was done, still hosting a healthy flush to his cheeks, and startled when he noticed Madara looking at him. “Was- was there anything else?”

Madara let his smile draw into a grin. “No. I think I’m done.” He took his time turning over and sitting up, watching Hashirama take a few steps back with a look on his face that rang with the feeling of _What do I do now?_ , and waved a hand. “Turn around.”

Hashirama started at having to be reminded. “Ah, right.”

He looked rigid and tense as he stood there and Madara lifted himself out of the bath. He stepped onto the mat beside the tub and toweled himself off, leaving his hair tied up as he pulled on his underclothes and the yukata he’d left folded on the bench.

Another idea occurred to him when he glanced at Hashirama’s still-tense shoulders. Smirking to himself, he sat down and picked up the roll of bandages on the end of the bench. “Hashirama.”

“Yes?” The man turned around with an almost pitifully anticipating expression, eyes flitting around, and he squinted in befuddlement when he spotted the bandages.

“I did say make yourself useful,” Madara told him, smiling innocently. The Senju’s eyes widened about half an inch.

“Y…you don’t mean- maybe Izuna would be better-”

“Oh, no, I’m sure he’s busy,” Madara retorted, trying not to purr as he lifted one leg from his yukata and held it out. Predictably, Hashirama’s eyes landed on it with barely a pause in between. “Besides, you’re the only one with such…strong and nimble fingers. You’re used to tying bandages, aren’t you?”

Hashirama stared at him, mouth hanging open. “Um…yes.”

Madara smiled. “A physician’s touch,” he said, as if it should have been more obvious, and motioned with his food for Hashirama to approach. He took a few unsteady steps and knelt down, reaching out and taking the bandages from his grasp and undoing the end of the roll.

He began near Madara’s knee, winding the bandages firmly around his leg, keeping his eyes glued to the flesh under his hands as he did and not daring a glance up at him. He appeared to be trying to go as quickly as he could without being sloppy, yet one of his hands lingered on Madara’s calf after he’d tied the end off, his fingertips trailing over his bandaged skin as he pulled away.

His eyes were still on his first leg as he slipped the other out of his yukata and pulled it back. The Senju startled, flushing as if embarrassed, and Madara smirked again as he began winding his second bandages. It appeared that Hashirama liked a pair of well-defined legs.

Madara let out a hum when Hashirama was done and retracted his legs. The other man pulled back, rising as his throat bobbed with a gulp, and Madara tried not to feel too self-satisfied. He let himself have a little bit of it, however, because with how often Hashirama teased him, he deserved some teasing himself.

“Hmm,” he noted, humming again as he examined his bare feet. “It appears I’ve forgotten my sandals.”

“Do you…want me to go get them for you?” Hashirama asked, eyes wide with hopefulness. The man was probably hoping for a break from the tension.

Madara hummed for a third time, a bit more judgmentally. “You wouldn’t be able to find anything in my room,” he dismissed. Hashirama’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just carry me to the porch; you wouldn’t want me to dirty my feet after a bath, would you?”

He could almost see Hashirama’s brain cease functioning. The man floundered there for a moment, mouth opening and closing, and looked to take a deep breath before moving forward and reaching for him. He paused, a few inches away, as if he didn’t know where to grab him, and Madara raised an expectant eyebrow at him.

He flushed and turned his gaze away from Madara’s eyes, pulling him up from the bench with an arm under his knees. Madara had never been carried before but found that it was…highly pleasant, not having to move, having Hashirama’s arms around him as he walked over to the porch, and he found his cheekbones starting to heat up. He was almost disappointed when the Senju lowered him to the wood.

He stood up and turned around, inwardly snickering at Hashirama’s stubborn refusal to meet his eyes. “I’ll just, ah, be going then,” the man mumbled, taking a wandering step back.

“Hold on, Hashirama,” Madara interrupted him, sidestepping and leaning over the railing to get closer to him. He motioned with two fingers for Hashirama to step closer again, nearly laughing at the almost suspicious way he did.

Above all else, he knew that Senju Hashirama was a sap. If there was one thing that would put him off guard the most it was raw and unfiltered affection that made the teasing enjoyable.

Madara had never been good with affection, but there was something about Hashirama, about wanting to make him happy, that made it easier. He put on a small, tender smile, a smile Hashirama was the only person privileged to see, and leaned down farther, speaking into the wide-eyed Senju’s ear.

“Thanks for being a good attendant,” he teased. He leaned back and found Hashirama staring at him, eyes even rounder, a hot blush on his cheekbones that was quickly traveling down his neck.

“Y…” He stuttered over his words, averting his eyes towards the ground and rubbing the back of his neck. The embarrassment was almost tooth-rotting cute. “Yeah…”

Madara’s smile widened. Deciding to give his confused friend a reprieve, he turned and walked down the line of his porch towards his bedroom door, mentally preening at the fact that he felt Hashirama’s eyes on his back until his door slid shut.

* * *

 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama whined, at, in his brother’s opinion, his most pathetic in months, “he made me change his dirty soap water. How _could_ you?”

Ignoring Hashirama’s tantrum- if his sulking episodes could be called such- Tobirama flipped to another page in the first edition of the newspaper the Yamanaka were putting out. A large portion of it was gossip, for some reason, sprinkled in with actual news so readers would have to read at least part of the nonsense to find it. He had a hard time understanding why the Yamanaka did much of anything they did.

“The drawing’s in your desk drawer, by the way,” he noted, sounding bored as Hashirama pouted at him harder than any child could.

“You’re mean,” Hashirama murmured, without any real bite, wandering over to the kitchen counter and searching through Tobirama’s cabinets for something to eat. “He tortured me for what felt like forever.”

“Changing his soap water most definitely sounds torturous.”

“It wasn’t just _that_ ,” Hashirama complained, closing the cabinet he had open and whirling to face him with the most desperate expression Tobirama had ever seen on a man. “He’s just… _god_ , he’s just- he had me wash his back, Tobirama, his _back_. I don’t…I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him without his mantle. And he had me tie his bandages for him, you know, the ones on his calves, and he’s so…sculpted, like some sort of old god from those stories that lures unsuspecting victims into death with his seductive manner-”

“I do _not_ ,” Tobirama interrupted, eyebrow twitching as he lifted his face to glare at him, “need to hear about Madara’s seductive manner.”

“He’s just so… _otherworldly_ ,” Hashirama groaned, lifting his haori and folding it over his head as he leaned it against the wall. He continued speaking in a muffled tone. “I couldn’t help it! He’s always wearing those mantles that hide so much-”

“Is there a point to all this, Hashirama?”

He could hear the pout in his brother’s voice. “Can’t I just come over to my baby brother’s house and talk about the man I like?”

The twitching returned. “Not if it’s an excuse to put more mushrooms in my freezer.”

“Tobirama!” The haori flew off as Hashirama turned around, looking upset to anyone who didn’t know him well. “They’re _healthy_!”

“They’re vile! I refuse to eat things not made for human consumption. And those green monstrosities are certainly not made for human consumption.”

Hashirama slumped over in a depressed funk. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me submit them to the fair tomorrow,” he mumbled, morose.

Which also served as a reminder. Curtailing a smirk, Tobirama set his newspaper down and maintained an air of uncaring. “It is for the village _farmers_. You’re far from a farmer.”

“I technically am! You’ve seen my gardens.”

 _That_ reminder made Tobirama grimace. He had, indeed, seen Hashirama’s gardens, a section of the forest at the base of the Hokage Mountain that was overgrown with plants, most of them just as awful as the mushrooms.

“Whatever you grow, it isn’t food,” he shot back, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the seat of another. He ought to get Madara into those gardens, just to see the resulting disaster that would leave Hashirama sulking. “Regardless, be on good behavior. You _do_ have an image to keep up.”

It took everything he had to keep a straight face. The Hokage’s good image pitted against Hashirama spilling something on Madara in a public place? A disaster waiting to happen.

Hashirama sighed. “I know, I know…” He traced a nonsensical pattern into Tobirama’s countertop, gaze growing distant. “Do you think Madara will let me buy strawberries for him? You know how he likes sweet things…”

Tobirama picked up his newspaper again and used it to hide his smirk, watching over the rim of the paper as Hashirama rambled on, never once suspecting his younger brother had malicious intentions.

* * *

 

“Izuna,” Madara yelled, throwing open the door to the kitchen and looking around for his brother. “I need to get naked around Hashirama.”

Izuna, in the middle of sewing something on the kitchen table, looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. His needle was pressed between his lips as he fiddled with the thread on the sleeve of whatever he was working on. “You don’t need my help for that,” he said, slightly muffled.

“No, no, I-” Madara waved his hands and began to pace, huffing. “I don’t mean like that. I mean…he was flustered because of my presence. During my bath. I need to be more…nude. I need more bare skin. You don’t understand, the noises he was making were hilarious-”

“I see,” Izuna interrupted him, beaming. He spat out his needle onto the table and let go of the sleeve, which belonged to, upon closer inspection, one of Madara’s mantles. He barely had time to wonder what Izuna was doing before he was off on a tangent. “You want something wanton, don’t you? You’ve come to the right place. Why, that’s what I was doing just now. Your clothes as they are too _boring_ , aniki, we need to alter them all. Come here and I’ll show you.”

Curious, Madara crossed the room to him and took the needle when it was held out to him, settling in next to the pile of his clothes in one of the kitchen chairs to take instruction. Sewing wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but he would readily take Izuna’s direction where it was needed.

He supposed it was time for a change to spice things up. He had, after all, worn nothing but his mantles for years; there was no reason not to take advantage of what he had when what he had made Hashirama turn into a steaming mess.


End file.
